


If There's No One Beside You

by khh1961



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Era, Canon Related, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, M/M, Male Friendship, PTSD, Romance, Shipping, Suicide Attempt, Tenderness, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:30:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khh1961/pseuds/khh1961
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire finds his way into the circle of Les Amis de l'ABC and into Enjolras' (not quite) marble heart and proves that, when he DOES believe in something (or someone), he will gladly go to hell and back for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fanfic and I'm really having fun with it. Please feel free to leave any positive feedback, suggestions for where to go from here or other commentary you may have. If you catch typos please let me know so I can fix them. Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading it!

If There’s No One Beside You, Chapter 1

The meeting over, le Café Musain stood nearly deserted and silent save for the sound of a light snoring coming from the darkened back corner.  Enjolras didn’t need to investigate to identify the source. The ruggedly handsome young headmaster of this burgeoning ‘revolutionary school’ knew it could only be one man. Grantaire had no doubt drank too much again and passed out hours ago while the others talked and hashed out the myriad details of their plan. Enjolras wondered cynically to himself if Grantaire, that poor drunken waste of humanity, had even heard a word of the fiery speech he’d delivered earlier that evening. He had spoken at length about the crucial need for a more even distribution of wealth and resources, and for a restoration of the freedoms enjoyed by all French citizens in earlier, happier times. It was one of his best speeches, he thought, one that had taken him days to write and rehearse to perfection alone in his flat. His young disciples, the foot soldiers of this coming battle, had listened with rapt attention to every word, their eyes ablaze and hearts filled with hope for this new dawn their leader envisioned. They all knew this was Enjolras’ only passion in life, his one true love to the exclusion of all else, even friendship. They jokingly called him ‘Apollo’, cold and hard as he was, like a marble statue of the Greek god of truth and light. And they all knew with equal certainty that Grantaire believed in nothing and cared for nothing, except perhaps for wine. He contributed little to these gatherings except for some occasional sarcastic commentary on the futility of all this ‘revolutionary folly’ as he called it. They tolerated his presence in the same way one might tolerate a mangy stray dog, a mix of pity and great affection. But when Grantaire got too drunk or too loud Enjolras didn’t hesitate to deal with him with a chilling brutality. He called him ‘Wine whore’ or worse, a good for nothing fool, a useless drunk. There was no pity in these words, only harsh contempt. It was clear that Enjolras found strength and purpose in the goals of his revolution. It was also clear that Grantaire found the same thing in the bottom of a bottle. But just as there was more to Enjolras than mythical marble, there was much more to Grantaire than inebriated cynicism.

 

Grantaire had survived a harsh upbringing in the outskirts of Paris, one of four children born to poor, uneducated parents. His father was a tradesman and a violent drunk, he, his mother and siblings a frequent target of the father’s drunken rage. As the oldest child, Grantaire often put himself between his father and the more helpless members of his family, tolerating the beatings and cursing without so much as a flinch or whimper. Over time it seemed he simply became numb to the pain, immune to the fear and entirely cut off from feelings- his own or anyone else's. He did not believe in love, believed in fact that he had no capacity for love or for trust. In this regard perhaps it can be said that his young heart was as much like marble, hard and cold, as the persona of Enjolras, the revolutionary leader he would encounter a bit later in his travels.  Grantaire left home at 15, headed to Paris to pursue a skilled trade, never once looking back. In the great city he found excitement, anonymity and more importantly, freedom. Here he could re-invent himself. He discovered a love of art and music. Though he possessed little formal education he taught himself to read well enough to enjoy the classics and also to write. He learned to appreciate poetry, even writing some of his own, coarse and crude though it may have been. He had a keen intellect and a quick mind, absorbing new ideas and thoughts as thirstily as a dry sponge absorbs water.. But his greatest pleasure was drawing and sketching the scenes of everyday life in Paris, the buildings and gardens, the great churches and cathedrals, the people- mostly the people. Grantaire found work with some local artisans and eventually enrolled in university to take some formal art classes. He rented a small flat, not much more than a hovel really, but he made it home. And home, such as it was, happened to be within walking distance to the university as well as to his favorite watering hole, Le Café Musain, near the Place St. Michel. Certainly drinking would have to be considered his second greatest pleasure in life and, as is the case for so many born to alcoholic families, Grantaire lost control over his own drinking habit in rather short order. He could be found most nights at the Café Musain drinking alone at a quiet table in the back room. More often than not the barkeep had to throw him out when closing time came round. And more often than not Grantaire would stagger the few blocks to his hovel where he’d collapse in a drunken stupor, usually still fully clothed, onto a low pallet with a straw mattress that served as his bed. To all appearances it was a very solitary existence. But here at least he was free.

 

Over time Enjolras had recruited a small but devoted core group of young men who believed as he did in the inevitability of rebellion by the oppressed against their oppressors. Every day he saw firsthand the suffering of the poorest in the streets of Paris, children barely dressed in rags whose eyes were as empty as their stomachs, desperate mothers begging for food to feed them, fathers who had simply given up trying. Scenes like this only served to fuel Enjolras’ anger and determination that change, if it was to come at all, would have to come from the people themselves, these miserable wretches whose day to day survival wasn’t much more than a crap shoot. He gave impassioned speeches anywhere he could get even a few people to stop and listen. He sought out workers, fellow students, and the poor themselves, rallying them all to his cause. He was charismatic, eloquent and a powerful speaker. But this singular, all-consuming focus in his life made it nearly impossible for anyone to get very near to the man behind the message. And it seemed that suited Enjolras just fine. He would ‘hold court’ weekly at the Café Musain, gathering his young devotees together there for a lively debate of the issues. These meetings went on for hours, sometimes into the early hours of the next day. The old barkeep didn’t seem to mind these gatherings much, just as long as the wine kept flowing and the tab got paid at the end of the night.  They were entertaining in a way, he thought, so full of youth and fire, ready to take on the world. But he couldn’t help but worry a bit for them too, wondering where all this talk of revolution might one day lead them.

 

One cool evening in early spring Grantaire had taken up his usual spot at a quiet corner table in the back room at Café Musain. He’d already downed a bottle of wine and was working on the second when a group of young men burst into the room, laughing, jostling each other and talking excitedly, invading his solitude much to his annoyance. He vaguely recognized some of them as students from the same university he attended (when he remembered to go.) But as he had no friends, he wouldn’t have been on so much as even a nodding acquaintance with any of them. For the moment Grantaire simply chose to ignore their existence and return to the task at hand- polishing off his second bottle of wine and scanning through the well-worn leather-bound sketchbook he carried with him everywhere. Who knows, he thought, perhaps there may even be some artistic fodder in this raucous group of fresh young faces? They continued on for a while with their lively banter until the appearance of another young man seemed to cause the whole group to fall into an immediate, reverent silence. He stood there quietly for a few minutes surveying the group the way a ruler might survey his subjects. Yet there was no pride or pleasure in his gaze, only a sternness that almost seemed to border on anger. Clearly this must be their leader, the man in charge. Everything about him gave off that air. He stood tall, upright, moved purposefully, spoke confidently. His fine features, azure blue eyes and tousled blond hair made him appear youthful but that iron gaze seemed to belie an old soul, someone with a wisdom well beyond his years. He turned to speak to the boy seated just to the right of him.

“Courfeyrac, have you seen Marius at all recently? He was supposed to have met with some of the tradesmen near Austerlitz but I’ve heard nothing from him in days.”

“No, Enjolras, I haven’t seen him either”, replied the boy somewhat uncertainly, as if there may be some consequence for giving the wrong answer.

“Well, isn’t that just grand?! Must I do everything myself?” Enjolras practically spat those last words, obviously displeased with this Marius fellow. He continued, more calmly now, “I hope you all understand how vitally necessary it is that we can rely on you. Each of us has his part to play but we must act as one. We cannot succeed in accomplishing our goals if any one of us shirks his responsibilities. Our duty to the people must remain our utmost priority at all times.”

A murmur of understanding and agreement passed through the subdued crowd. Enjolras spoke again, this time addressing a sandy haired boy on the opposite side of the table.

“Combeferre, did you hand out the notices for the rally next week?”

“Yes”, replied Combeferre, “and I posted a few extra around the university as well. Hopefully that will help us draw a larger crowd than we had last time.”

Enjolras simply nodded his acknowledgement. It appeared that ‘thank you’ or ‘well done’ were not familiar phrases in his vocabulary. The meeting went on for another couple of hours while Grantaire polished off a few more bottles of wine and sketched lazily on his drawing pad. “Artistic fodder indeed”, he thought, smiling to himself.

 

It wasn’t long before Grantaire realized that the meeting he’d observed came to be a regular weekly event. And while he wasn’t at all happy that they had chosen “his” space for their gathering, he gradually became less aggravated by their appearance, perhaps even mildly intrigued. Their discussions and debates were almost always about social, economic or political issues. Their speech was rife with words like ‘equality’, ‘freedom’, ‘justice’ and ‘revolution’, and all seemed to have their own ideas on how to free the land and raise the poor out of their wretched misery. Grantaire found their zeal admirable if perhaps a bit naïve and misguided. After all, he thought in drunken bemusement, why should anyone care so passionately about bettering anyone’s lot in life save for their own?  So each week the boys would come bursting noisily into the back room, occupy their tables, spread out their books, and banter easily with each other till their ‘Apollo’ arrived, then all was business again- debates, rallies, plans, speeches, politics, always politics.  This man in the red jacket seemed to be at once the heart of this group, its very life force, and yet still apart from it. The boys respected him even when their philosophies and ideas for achieving their goals differed radically from his. But when Enjolras said ‘jump’, they all knew there was only one correct response. It was this ‘Apollo’ that intrigued Grantaire the most, though none of them had seemed to take much notice of the drunken man hunkered down in the corner, surrounded by his empty bottles of wine, drawing. To Grantaire’s artist’s eye, this Enjolras fellow was great subject material with his statuesque form, sculpted features and fiery eyes. And while Grantaire appeared deliberately disinterested, even invisible to the group, he heard every word that Enjolras said.


	2. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. Positive feedback and commentary always welcome.

If There’s No One Beside You, Chapter 2

It was during one of their regular meetings, several weeks after they had begun gathering at Café Musain that Grantaire, inebriated as usual, made his presence known to the group of boys he had come to call les Amis. He heard them refer to themselves as the society of something or other but he thought that sounded stuffy and pretentious. He was in a particularly foul mood that evening and was much further along in the bottle count than usual by the time they arrived. Enjolras began holding forth on the subject of the poor and downcast, the injustice, the obscenity of extreme wealth held in the hands of so few when there was nothing but abject suffering for so many. As he was finishing his remarks he caught sight of a dark haired man in the corner staggering to his feet, sending empty wine bottles clattering to the floor as he rose.

“Bravo, monsieur, bravo!” Grantaire attempted a deep bow and flourish but had to grab the table to steady himself. “But what does brave monsieur know of the life of the poor? And why on earth would they elect a bourgeois schoolboy to be their savior?” 

Enjolras shot him a wilting look, one that would have been enough to silence any reasonable man. But Grantaire was far from reasonable at that moment and he remained standing, grasping the table edge for support and staring defiantly back at the angry leader in the fiery red jacket.

“And what interest is any of this to you, Monsieur?” inquired Enjolras in a low and dangerous tone. “Perhaps you should return to your drink. I think there may be one or two bottles left in the bar that you’ve not discovered yet.”

“Hmmm, perhaps”, Grantaire replied, “but you’ve not yet provided an answer to my question. It is a fact that there have always been poor and it is a fact there will always be poor and there is nothing within your mere mortal power that can change this basic truth. Or does monsieur believe himself to be more than a mere mortal?” 

Enjolras continued to fix his steady gaze on this intruder. “In that regard, sir, you are quite mistaken. There is much that I, that we ‘mere mortals’ as you say, can do to effect change. It is my belief that such change can only happen from the bottom up. Those in power would never relinquish their power to help those who suffer beneath the yoke of the masters. They would do whatever is required to keep the poor from approaching any kind of equality. But those united by their suffering make a truly formidable force for change. The day fast approaches when that force will finally rise up and demand to be reckoned with.” 

Satisfied with this response, Grantaire again attempted a bow then slumped back down in his seat, took a deep slug from the bottle in his hand and raised it toward Enjolras in a wordless toast.

 

Every meeting thereafter brought, without fail, at some point some manner of drunken intrusion from the dark haired man at the corner table. This usually came by way of baited questions, sarcastic commentary or derisive laughter at this group of wide eyed young idealists who took themselves so seriously. Sometimes Enjolras would engage Grantaire as he had done that first night, the exchange always terse and barely civil. But when there was no patience for it, he would dismiss Grantaire offhand with just a cold hard stare or harsh admonishment to go crawl back to the bottle like a good wine whore. Grantaire had certainly accomplished the goal of making his presence known and now there seemed to be no good way to ignore him. This is what prompted Courfeyrac, simply called ‘Courf’ by his mates, to try and get to know the man at the corner table. Courf was outgoing, laughed and spoke easily to everyone. He flirted shamelessly with the waitresses who brought their drinks and he was full of the bravado so often seen in boys of his age. Courfeyrac seemed to bring balance to this diverse group but in such a quiet way that it could have easily escaped notice.  When necessary he could quickly focus the attention of his sometimes highly distractible, rowdy young friends. But he was also able to humanize Enjolras, to relate to the man he knew existed beneath the marble mask. So it was that one evening as the boys filed out of the café after their meeting, Courf stayed behind to talk with the drunkard in the corner. The man introduced himself as Grantaire, which sounded more like Grand-ER when pronounced through the haze of too much wine.

“Then perhaps I’ll just call you R!” suggested Courf jovially.

“If it pleases you, monsieur. I have been called worse.” slurred Grantaire. It had been a four bottle night so far and he was amenable to just about anything.

“I’m called Courf” and as he said this Courfeyrac offered his hand to Grantaire who grasped it with a warmth and sincerity neither of them had quite expected. Their friendship began in that very moment.

 

Over the course of weeks that followed, Courf quietly drew Grantaire who he now mostly called ‘R’, having personally bestowed that nickname on him, closer to the circle of ‘les amis’, introducing him to one or two of the boys at a time. Most of them were quite unsure how to react to this newcomer, this drunken interloper who disrupted their meetings with his crude humor and off-color songs he seemed to make up on the spot just to annoy them. He provided entertainment value, that much was certain. But he offered not much more than foolishness and levity which seemed at times very much out of place. Planning a revolution after all was serious business. Grantaire would sometimes buy a round of drinks for everyone which definitely raised the boys’ estimation of him. He was lighthearted and easy going if he hadn’t had too much to drink. The darker aspects of his personality began showing up after the fourth or fifth bottle.  It was usually then that he would try to bait Enjolras, questioning his ideals and motivations, blatantly mocking him for caring so much about people too stupid to even be aware of their desperate state. Grantaire pushed and Enjolras pushed back, thrust and parry, a pugilistic contest not of fists but of wits, words and wills.  For Enjolras, Grantaire was nothing more than a thorn in his side, a wastrel, a drunken fool, an object of pity and a target for scorn. But for Grantaire, Enjolras was slowly becoming a demigod, an idol, a bright angel in his very dark world.  He had begun to quietly worship the man, to admire his fierce strength and personal integrity, his passionate devotion to an ideal, his moral character, his inner fire. Grantaire knew that he himself lacked any such traits and no one he’d ever known came even close. So despite receiving nothing from ‘Apollo’ but harsh treatment, insults and rebuff, Grantaire desired only one thing more desperately than a bottomless glass. Though no words could explain it he wanted, needed, to be wherever this bright angel was. Just to stand for a moment in his beautiful light warmed him more deeply than any wine ever had.

 

At the next meeting, it was Combeferre and Jehan, the youngest member of the group, who invited ‘R’ to sit with them at a table in the center of the back room where they usually gathered. But while he enjoyed their company immensely, ‘R’ preferred keeping to his quiet spot in the corner where he could observe, drink and draw. More and more frequently now, Enjolras was the subject of his sketching and this was not something he wished for anyone else to know. He didn’t even understand it himself and wasn’t sure he could explain it should it somehow come to light. Watching Enjolras move as he spoke, his graceful form, expressive eyes, and fine, delicate hands were all pure art to Grantaire. He still drank way too much and couldn’t keep his cynical remarks to himself. But if that’s what it took to get Enjolras to look his way for just a minute, even if it meant those blazing blue eyes shot nothing but disdain in his direction, he was oddly content.<br />

 

Weeks of this, then months passed. The dark haired drunken skeptic became as regular a face at these gatherings as any of the others and while he remained a devout cynic and confirmed non believer, still he gladly helped out with anything the boys asked of him. They were, he thought, perhaps the closest thing to real friends he’d ever had. Sometimes he’d even venture out to their public rallies (bringing a flask along for good measure) especially if he knew Enjolras would be speaking. There was no finer sight, thought ‘R’, than Apollo on fire for his cause, igniting the crowd with words that seemed to flow from him as if sent from the very heavens. It wasn’t hard to imagine in such moments that these people would follow anywhere Enjolras may choose to lead them and without hesitation. His words made them SEE the vision he had for the future, FEEL what it would be like to live in a time when the land was free. He was a true poet, thought Grantaire, an artist who painted with words. All of France was his canvas and Patria was his muse.


	3. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. Positive feedback and commentary always welcome.

If There’s No One Beside You, Chapter 3

 

For his part Enjolras didn’t know how to take this buffoon who orbited so closely to his core group of disciples without ever becoming one. He would have denied this vehemently if anyone had pressed him on it but he was somewhat intrigued by the man everyone now just called ‘R’. Enjolras had been thus far quite unable to address Grantaire by anything resembling a proper name, afraid that it may indicate some acknowledgement of his existence or worse yet, respect. These were concessions he wasn’t yet willing to make though it seemed clear that Grantaire was there for the long run. So instead he called him “wastrel”, “wine whore” or “good for nothing fool” and left it at that.

 

The movement toward some sort of uprising by the poor and oppressed had gained momentum at a steady pace since the boys had first begun to gather weekly at the Café Musain in early spring of 1831. Now it seemed inevitable, unavoidable, simply a matter of time. Talk of revolution was no longer confined to dark alleyways or the back rooms of bars. People spoke openly about the changes they believed were coming. Cockade rosettes were being sported by people young and old, students, workers and even by the middle class. The French tricolor flag and the red revolutionary banner flew side by side from windows and doorways across Paris. The revolutionary fire grew hotter just as the days of spring passed to summer in the great city. Another public rally was set for a Saturday afternoon in early July at a park near the university. The boys had done a great deal of legwork in publicizing the event and a very large turnout was expected. Enjolras and Marius, who had become somewhat more reliable in his participation of late, would be the featured speakers. But as always Enjolras was the ‘main event.’ People began gathering early the afternoon of the rally though the speaking wasn’t set to begin till 4pm. The boys had met first thing that morning at Musain to go over their assignments- handing out pamphlets, making sure there was a suitable speaking platform, and so on. They found Grantaire already or, more accurately, STILL there passed out with his head on the table, surrounded by empty bottles. He stirred slightly at the sound of their voices and the scraping of chair legs on the hardwood floor, looked up at them bleary eyed and quizzically.

“What’s going on?” he managed to say despite the Saharan dryness in his mouth. “Did I miss the meeting?”

“Go back to sleep ‘R’ “, said Courf good naturedly. “It’s much too early in the day for drunkards to be up and about!”

Grantaire squinted painfully at the sunlight coming through the cafés side windows. The fog lifted just enough for him to realize it was morning. “Saturday morning”, he thought, “the rally is this afternoon. I really should be there.”

 Just as these coherent thoughts were forming in his still fuzzy brain, Enjolras made his entrance, striding purposefully into the room, clearly in full-on Patria mode, wearing his usual bright red waistcoat with the cockade rosette on the left breast over his heart. He spoke with a clarity and forcefulness that made Grantaire’s head pound.  “Well brothers, are we prepared for the day’s event?”

Jehan, Courfeyrac, Joly and Combeferre all started answering at once and Grantaire thought his head may actually explode from the sound. Yes, they were ready and everyone had their task. Even Gavroche, their little mascot, who constantly trailed behind Courf like a living shadow had his job- to watch out for anyone who might be trouble. Police officers, spies, informants and radical royalists were a constant threat when plotting a revolution. But Gavroche knew exactly what to be on the lookout for. A hard life in the streets of Paris had made him wise well beyond his 11 years, wise and tough but with a loyal heart and a great deal of affection for his older friends, the only family he had.

“Yes Enjolras” said Combeferre, “We have everything well in hand. Each man has his task.”

“Very well then”, replied their leader, “carry on.”

A voice suddenly spoke up from the corner. “What about me? What am I to do?”

Enjolras turned slowly in the direction of the voice, one he knew only too well, one that usually served just one purpose- to vex, annoy and aggravate him. His eyes fixed on the wild haired, sloppily dressed drunkard. “You?” he asked incredulously, unable to keep the mocking laughter out of his voice. “You?!”

“Yes me. And why not me?” came the reply. The request seemed a perfectly sound one to Grantaire as if there could be no good reason for not including him in their plans.

“Perhaps because you are a good for nothing fool, a drunken lout still besotted on yesterday’s wine” retorted Enjolras.  But he didn’t stop there. “And if by some miracle I did call upon you for assistance I doubt you could go that long without a drink. Hell, man, you probably can’t even stand under your own power long enough to get out the front door! Besides, you’ve made it abundantly clear that you do not believe in our cause. Frankly you’ve never missed an opportunity to insult it, to point out all the flaws in our ideals, to mock it- to mock ME- for my commitment to the people, to France. You are a self-righteous non-believer in what we’re doing here, what we’re trying to do. So why on earth would I ever agree to let you help us? Why would you even think to ask? Personally, monsieur, I doubt there’s anything you care about or DO believe in, with the obvious exception of drink.”

 Grantaire had shrunk deeper into his corner during this vicious verbal onslaught, shaken and vulnerable as he was without a recent dose of liquid courage to embolden him. The next words out of his mouth though sounded strange and foreign to him even as he spoke them, as if they were being said by another. “You’re wrong, Enjolras” he said softly. “I believe in YOU. As my word is my bond there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you if you but asked it of me.”

The sincerity and sadness in his words were so poignant as to be physically painful to everyone who heard them, especially to Enjolras. But never one to be caught off guard in a war of words, Enjolras again fixed his steely gaze firmly on the man in the corner and said “Do you really wish to do something for me?”

Finding no voice, Grantaire could only nod in the affirmative.

“Then crawl back into your bottle, monsieur. Leave these tasks of intellect to those whose brains have not been pickled in absinthe and brandy.”

He’d had his feelings bruised by the leader in red more than once before, but this time the hurt was more than Grantaire could bear. He stood up and, staggering and stumbling, made for the café door, eyes downcast, hoping desperately no one could see the red-faced shame he felt or the hot tears welling in his deep blue eyes. The throbbing pain in his head had been replaced by the piercing pain of a dagger to his heart.


	4. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. Positive feedback and commentary always welcome.

If There’s No One Beside You, Chapter 4

 

By the appointed time for the rally a crowd of several hundred people had packed the park, standing, sitting on stone benches around the perimeter, even climbing trees for a better vantage point. Marius spoke first. Though he was also an accomplished speaker, Marius still got nervous in front of large crowds so it comforted him when he looked down to see the encouraging faces of ‘les amis’ close to the platform. His grandfather, Henri Pontmercy, was an ardent royalist who was deeply appalled by Marius’ anti-monarchist activities, called him a disgrace and banished the young man from the family home. But Marius and Enjolras had been friends for many years, both studied politics and law at the university, so Enjolras had taken Marius into his home for a short time till he found more permanent lodging. Now together they sought to bring change to the people, freedom to the land, to make LIVE the ideals of LIBERTY, EQUALITY and BROTHERHOOD. When Marius had finished speaking, Enjolras stepped forward. He too noted with mild pleasure the familiar faces gathered close to the speaking platform, his young foot soldiers- Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly, Grantaire. Wait. What? He looked again. Sure enough, there he was, the wine whore himself, looking less disheveled than he had earlier, more clear-eyed too. He stood with the others waiting for their leader to speak, eager for the words of wisdom and inspiration that would pour forth from his golden tongue.

 

Enjolras had paused for a brief moment when he’d spotted Grantaire standing there, saw his blue eyes so clear and bright, and for just a fleeting second he felt like an ass for having treated him so brutally earlier that day. But then he was ‘Apollo’ again, Apollo ablaze for the Patria. This was after all what the people had come to see, what they had grown to expect from this fiery young preacher of revolution. And Enjolras always delivered. The people were cheering wildly, shouting ‘Vive la France!’, ‘Vive la Republique!’ and waving their flags when there was a sudden commotion near the front of the crowd.

A man shouted “Death to traitors! Long live the king!” as he jumped onto the platform and lunged angrily toward Enjolras with something in his hand, the bright sunlight glinting off the object- a blade, a very long blade. Out of nowhere someone had come between Enjolras and the knife-wielding royalist, throwing the angry man aside and knocking Enjolras to the platform. But the determined attacker quickly regained his footing and came at Enjolras again with the knife raised. The blade struck deeply into flesh and the assailant, satisfied with this, jumped off the platform and disappeared into the chaotic crowd.

“Enjolras!” The stunned leader could hear the panicked voices of his lieutenants crowding around him now, shouting his name. He sat up dazed, looked around, felt himself and discovered he was unharmed. Then a few feet away he saw the very still figure of a man, face down, something protruding from his upper back, blood pooling around him. Combeferre and Joly were already there assessing his condition.

“He’s still breathing! We can’t remove the knife” said Joly, “or he may bleed to death right here! We need something we can use to pack around the wound and stabilize the knife. Someone get me a shirt, some rags, anything. Quickly!”

Now Enjolras moved closer to the wounded man. With a sickening feeling rising up from deep in his gut he recognized the unruly mop of dark curly hair, the ratty green vest spattered with blood. Combeferre and Joly had firmly packed clean cloths around the wound and secured the knife in place with strips of what had been a man’s shirt to keep it from moving too much. Carefully they shifted the injured man to a half-sitting position, readying him to be moved to a waiting carriage.  Enjolras saw the face then, the deep blue eyes, open, clear but unseeing. He felt a sudden need to vomit and turned away from his people, hoping they wouldn’t see. ‘Apollo’ suddenly felt very, very mortal. 

“Goddamn you, Grantaire!! Why?!” screamed the voice in Enjolras’ head. This time the cynical drunkard was silent; there would be no answer. But now the wastrel had a name, a face. In that terrible instant he had become someone again.

 

There was a deathly silence in the hospital’s main waiting area as Combeferre and Joly waited with Courfeyrac and Jehan for news of their gravely wounded friend. He had still been breathing when they arrived at the hospital but just barely. And despite the boys’ quick thinking, he’d lost a good deal of blood. His pulse was weak and his color white as the hospital sheet they’d covered him with before whisking him off to the operating room, the knife still protruding from his back. Marius had taken Enjolras home, the leader still dazed and shaken by what had happened at the park. Enjolras knew he wasn’t ready to face the scene he feared was unfolding at the hospital.  He wasn’t ready to hear that Grantaire was dead, that he had died protecting HIM, especially in light of the unkind last words Enjolras had spoken to him. He hoped against hope that they wouldn’t be the last thing he’d ever say to the man who had just saved his life.

 

The doctor and his assistant came to speak with the boys who’d been waiting for hours. Both their faces were somber and when the doctor spoke his voice was low and grave.

“He lives, for now. We removed the knife but found it had nicked the spinal cord. There is no movement or response in his feet or legs at this time. We do not know yet if he will walk again. We have him heavily sedated so he stays immobile and we are giving him blood replacements. He will not be allowed visitors for at least a few days. His survival is still very much in question. His family should be notified at once.” It was Courfeyrac who spoke first saying

“We are all the family he has, docteur.” The doctor nodded his understanding and left the room.

All was silent for a while till Joly spoke up and said “We should take turns staying here in case there is a change. I’ll stay tonight. You others should go home, rest. Someone should inform Enjolras.”

There was quiet agreement and they filed out leaving Joly to sit there in the cold antiseptic silence alone. He hadn’t prayed in a very long time but tried desperately now to find the words.


	5. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. Positive feedback and commentary always welcome.

If There’s No One Beside You, Chapter 5

 

His eyes fluttered open, struggled to focus. A high ceiling, white walls, cold and quiet. “Where am I?”, he wondered.

A face came into his field of vision, a woman in a white veil, a simple wooden cross around her neck. So many questions were forming in his clouded mind but when he found the strength to speak only one came out clearly. “Enjolras?” 

“Rest, my son”, said the woman in white. “You must be still and rest.”

Grantaire tried to sit up, fought against the bed sheets that constrained his movement. A sudden searing pain shot from his back straight through his chest and he fell back against the pillows. Before the blackness swallowed him again he managed one more question, the one burning brightest through the haze in his mind. “Enjolras?”

 

As they had promised, the boys were a constant presence at the hospital both day and night. They knew he was still living, knew that he’d awakened and asked about their leader. On the fourth day the doctor came to inform them that Grantaire could have visitors, but only one at a time and only for a few minutes. Courfeyrac was there with Jehan so Courf went first. It was hard for him to connect the pale, weak form in the bed with the rowdy, loud mouthed drunkard he’d become quite fond of.

“’R’”, he called softly, “can you hear me?”

The eyes opened wide at the sound of a familiar voice. The question, the one clear thought he could manage found voice again. “Enjolras?”

“Safe”, Courf answered him quietly. “You saved his life, ‘R’, but we feared you were a goner.”

“Glad to know our fearless leader lives”, Grantaire answered, smiling weakly. Courf was immensely relieved to hear the attempt at humor in his friend’s voice.

“Tired”, Grantaire managed, “just so tired.”

“It’s ok”, said Courf. “Just rest now. We’ll come round to see you again tomorrow.”

Grantaire nodded, smiled weakly again. “Bring some wine when you come again, will you? I’ve a terrible thirst and all they bring me here is water.”

Courf smiled broadly at his friend. He felt certain then that ‘R’ would recover and return to them. It might take a while, Courf realized, but he would be back at the Musain with them again, loud, drunk and annoying as hell but there. There, where he belonged.

 

Enjolras was still recovering too from the attack that might well have ended his life if it hadn’t been for Grantaire. He had always believed that he would die quite willingly in the name of his cause but coming that close to it had proved more than a bit unsettling. He had been kept regularly informed on Grantaire’s condition though he had not yet been able to bring himself to visit him in the hospital. He felt, what? Guilt? Shame? Fear? It was a true emotional upheaval, something he had not experienced in a very long time, something he did not care for in the least. Statues of marble do not feel fear. Still he could not shake the memory of the words Grantaire had spoken to him that morning at the café. “I believe in YOU. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” Nor could he shake the expression on the drunkard’s face, the clear blue eyes, the sad earnestness in his words. “Why?”, wondered Enjolras. “Why would he choose to place his only true conviction in me? I’m just a man, just… a…. man.”  Not a god. Just a man

 

Stillness and immobility did not agree with Grantaire. He became irritable and quite unpleasant, owing most certainly in some part to the sudden and profound lack of alcohol in his system. These last seven days were the longest he’d gone without a drink in. ? He couldn’t recall. The doctor had ordered medications to help ease the pain of his slowly healing wound but they weren’t powerful enough to lessen the sharp pain that seemed to cut through him from back to front every time he tried to move. The hospital staff tried to discourage him from too much movement but he was less than cooperative most days. The sisters caring for him told him that he needed rest but he didn’t want to rest. He wanted to be with his friends, to be outside and feel the sun, breathe air that did not smell of antiseptics, to drink, to be free. Especially to be free of the nightmare he had almost every time he fell deeply asleep:

_He is watching his ‘Apollo’, listening to him speak, the words sound like music, lyrical yet full of fire. Even the sun seems to glint off his golden locks. Suddenly there is someone there waving a knife, angry, shouting, lunging. He starts to run toward Enjolras but his legs won’t move. He is frozen in place as if his feet were cast in cement. He can only watch helplessly as the angry man stabs Apollo again and again, crimson staining his red waistcoat with every blow. He sees Apollo falling, falling. He wakes up screaming “Enjolras!” over and over, soaked in sweat, trembling in fear. He feels confused, doesn’t understand. It makes no sense. Marble statues cannot bleed._

 

Two weeks had passed since he’d awoken in his hospital bed. Two long weeks of being confined. Two incredibly long weeks without a drink. Two unbearably long weeks since he’d seen Enjolras.  “Why hasn’t he come?” But then he remembered. To Enjolras, he is still just a good for nothing fool, a wastrel, a drunkard, and therefore unworthy.  There is some sensation, even slight movement in his feet and legs now, a very positive sign. But too much movement too soon could still unravel all the doctor’s careful knitting. Time, patience and faith, the sisters reminded him daily. Time was the only thing he seemed to have an endless supply of lately.

 

By the third week he was able to stand upright with some support, even to bear a bit of weight briefly on his still unsteady legs. He was determined to walk out of this place under his own power. He still struggled to remember exactly what had happened, how he’d come to be there. The boys had told him the story of his heroics that day several times already; how he’d leaped onto the speakers platform, pushed the angry man away, knocked Enjolras to the platform and placed his own body between their leader and the man with the knife, how he’d been stabbed deep in the back and carried off to the hospital, and how he’d very nearly died from his injuries. But he could recall only dreamlike bits and pieces, unsure what he really remembered and what he knew because of the stories the boys had told him. He wasn’t sure he actually wanted to remember the whole incident in detail. He was quite sure however that he really wanted the recurring nightmare about it to disappear and never bother him again. Enjolras meanwhile had been battling with his own nightmares since the attempt on his life. But the worst one was also the one he had with frightening regularity:

_He is in the park again, speaking to the crowd. Grantaire is there in front with all the others, listening and watching. His blue eyes are so clear, clearer than Enjolras has ever seen them. There is something else in his eyes though when Grantaire looks up at him that way, something different, something quite out of character, something like faith or trust, only not. Something deeper than that. He is still struggling to identify this look when suddenly someone sets upon him with a knife. He sees the blade in the man’s raised hand, sees it coming toward him. Then he is knocked to the ground and the man with the knife has vanished. He hears the boys calling his name, panic stricken. He sits up, sees the figure of a man with curly dark hair face down, a knife protruding from his back. He crawls to the man, turns him so he can see the face. Those eyes, deep blue eyes, open, stare up at him. A thin trickle of blood comes from his nose and mouth. He is trying hard to speak but his voice is so weak, barely even a whisper. Enjolras leans closer, strains to hear his words. “Will you allow me the honor of dying for you today, bright angel? Do you permit it?”  Then he falls silent and the clear blue eyes close, never to open again. Enjolras wakes up screaming “No, Grantaire! No, goddamn you!” He is soaked in sweat, trembling in fear, something damp and hot burning his eyes. He feels confused, doesn’t understand. It makes no sense. Marble statues cannot cry..._


	6. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, more to follow. Work Still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. Positive feedback and commentary always welcome.

If There’s No One Beside You, Chapter 6

 

It happened in the sixth week of his confinement in the hospital, a place that had of late come to feel more like a prison than a place of healing. They were still giving him heavy doses of pain medication and the medication (along with the ongoing detox from alcohol) was still giving him nightmares, especially THAT nightmare. The boys had left the hospital a while ago to get some dinner and head to Café Musain for their regular meeting that evening. He missed those gatherings terribly, wished he could be there again in the warm company of his friends. He missed that even more than he missed the wine that flowed there. Time still seemed so strange to him. Since he woke and slept in no particular pattern here, day and night blurred and became practically indistinguishable.  He’d drifted off to sleep after they’d left, completely exhausted. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept or how much time had passed. The nightmare came again, so frighteningly real. He watched ‘Apollo’ falling and falling, his red jacket covered in blood. He was trying so hard, so desperately to reach him but he couldn’t move, his legs still frozen in place. He tried reaching out with his arms, stretching them toward his fallen hero. He screamed “Enjolras!” again and again and again.It was his own terrified screams that awoke him, heart pounding, hot tears stinging his eyes, arms still flailing till they were caught and stilled by someone close by his bedside, someone whose arms were much stronger than his own. A hand reached down, brushed stray locks of dark hair away from his still panic stricken eyes and came to rest soft and cool against his fevered forehead. Then a voice spoke gently.

“Shhh. Hush now. It’s alright, ‘R’, it’s alright. I’m here with you now. Calm down. Just lay still and rest.”

The face came into focus. Golden hair, sky blue eyes, and features like a fine marble statue. “Apollo?”, Grantaire managed to say hoarsely. “But I… I don’t….. I’m no good... not worthy.”

Enjolras put a finger to his lips to quiet his protestations, the words almost too painful for him to hear, and softly shook his head. The effort it took for Grantaire even to speak those few words was incredible, especially in the aftermath of that god-awful, emotionally draining dream. He wanted so much to be sure he was fully awake, that Enjolras was really here and not just a figment of his drug-hazed brain. There was so much he needed to say to him, so much he’d been wanting, waiting weeks to say to him. Exhausted, all he could do was lay back against his pillows, content for the moment just to have Enjolras still holding his arms, caressing his forehead, trying to keep him calm and quiet.

He tried hard just to focus in on that angelic face, noticed how blue his eyes were, blue like the sea and just as deep. He noticed how tired he looked, pale even. He saw the tortured look in his eyes and in his expression. He couldn’t understand it.

“You look like hell for one made of marble. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you’d been on a week-long bender!”, Grantaire said softly, trying to smile for the sake of his Apollo. “I’d offer you a drink but the strongest stuff they’ve got in this asylum is water.” 

Enjolras tried hard to smile, something his facial muscles weren’t accustomed to under the most normal conditions. Grantaire saw the effort, appreciated it.

“Afraid the marble mask may crack?”, he quipped.

“Well, aren’t you just full of piss and vinegar tonight?” replied Enjolras, trying hard to inject some humor into his voice but choosing every word he said with great care.

“Be still my heart! The statue speaks!” Grantaire seemed to be finding new strength with every moment spent in the presence of his idol. He noticed Enjolras still hadn’t let go of his arms and that his hand still rested comfortably on his forehead. He liked the way it felt there, the weight of it, gentle but firm.

“Aren’t you supposed to be off plotting revolution tonight, fair Apollo?”, Grantaire teased.

“I was, Monsieur Wiseass. The meeting ended hours ago. Luckily for you my father is a good friend of the chief administrator of this fine institution. That’s how I was able to get in after hours to see you. Good thing too. You might have torn the place down with all that thrashing about. And your shouting might’ve woken the dead!”

A dark, fearful look suddenly crossed Grantaire’s features. “Don’t say dead…ok? Please Enj?”

Enjolras was struck by the sound of his nickname, used so often by the boys but never, ever by Grantaire. “You just called me Enj!”, he said and felt almost instantly foolish for doing so.

“Well, you just called me ‘R’ a bit ago, monsieur! And turn about is fair play, no?”

“I suppose it is at that”, replied Enjolras. And suddenly he felt the weight of all the bricks in his chest disappear as he dared to believe the man in the hospital bed was probably going to make it after all. The man, not the wastrel or the wine whore, but the man. The man who had saved his life and nearly lost his in the bargain.

 

He had arrived at the hospital late that evening after the meeting at the café had adjourned. They let him in, showed him to Grantaire’s bedside. He sat there quietly just watching him sleep, still trying to fathom what could have made Grantaire come to his aid that day in such dramatic fashion, what made him so willing to lay down his own life for Enjolras’. He thought about his own recurring dream, the look in Grantaire’s eyes that he couldn’t identify, the words he whispered to Enjolras as he died. “Do you permit it?” There were so many questions, so many, yet he could formulate only one. Why? He was startled out of this introspection by someone screaming his name over and over, a terrified scream. He saw Grantaire thrashing, flailing his arms, reaching for something, for someone, for HIM. He grabbed his arms gently, held them still, brushed the hair from his eyes, caressed his forehead, spoke to him softly, the way one might speak to a frightened child who has just awoken from a bad dream. He could feel Grantaire relax with his touch, calmed by his presence and he was glad. They just sat together that way for a while, not talking; there seemed no need for words. After an hour or two, Enjolras got up, made motions to leave.

“Don’t go, Apollo. Please?” The request was so soft yet so full of desperation. “What if the nightmare comes again? What if you’re dying and I can’t reach you? How am I to go on without you to believe in? Please, Enj. Please stay with me, just a while longer.”

“Ok”, replied Enjolras. “Just for a bit. But we both really should try and get some sleep.”

He moved carefully, gingerly to lie beside Grantaire on the narrow hospital bed, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him close till Grantaire’s head rested in the crook of his neck, against his shoulder. They were soon fast asleep and there were no nightmares, only peaceful slumber for both.


	7. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. Positive feedback and commentary are always welcome.

If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 7

 

Eight long weeks after he arrived at the hospital on death’s doorstep, Grantaire was discharged and allowed to return home. His legs were still unsteady, a condition not unfamiliar to one who had maintained a near constant state of inebriation for so long. But full sensation in his feet and legs had been restored and he walked out of the hospital under his own power. Enjolras had arranged for a carriage to pick Grantaire up and deliver him home. Courf and Jehan were there to help ready him for leaving. That first step outside into the bright sunlight and warm, fresh summer air was almost spiritual, though Grantaire did not believe in such notions. But it felt good anyway and he was quite happy just to be leaving, walking, breathing, living. The boys settled him back into his flat, helped him change into some clean clothes and then helped him into his bed. They opened some windows to let in the sun and fresh air, made certain there was food available- some dark bread, fresh fruit and soft cheese. Some of the boys had come to Grantaire’s flat earlier that day ahead of his arrival to tidy up a bit and dispose of all the empty bottles of alcohol that littered the floor and tabletops. They disposed of some full ones too. Grantaire had detoxed in the hospital and had now been two months without a drink. His friends all hoped this was the beginning of a different life for him, a sober life. Surely such a close brush with death would inspire him to want to live better, to live more fully, to value this second chance he’d been given at life. It wouldn’t take long for everyone to realize that Grantaire had no such aspirations.

His pain had lessened so for now at least there was no need to take the drugs he had been given in the hospital. This was a great relief since he’d decided that the drugs were wholly to blame for the nightmares. The doctor told him he would still need to rest, to exercise his legs daily to strengthen muscles that had atrophied from two long months of immobility. The stab wound itself had healed well though it would leave a large, angry red scar as a permanent reminder. Sometimes though Grantaire swore he could feel the blade as if it were still lodged in his back. Certain motions would produce that shooting pain that seemed to originate from deep in his back and radiate through to his chest. The sharp intensity of that pain would get his attention and render him breathless for a minute or two. But he was determined to get back to the business of living, on his terms of course, and quickly. He would take short walks two or three times a day, even in the rain. At first these were limited to just his own block, then a little further down the street to the boulangerie, then all the way to the university where he might have lunch with Combeferre or Joly. Eventually his walks would take him to the Musain and he would stop to have a rest, a quick social drink, just something to whet his thirst before heading home again.

 

This all went quite well for a time and he managed to stay more or less sober, drinking no more wine than the average Frenchman. Even during the meetings of les Amis he would have no more than a glass or two of wine or perhaps a beer. He seemed quite content to just sit in his usual spot, observing and drawing, trading friendly banter with the others and trying hard to keep Enjolras in his line of sight without being too obvious about it. They hadn’t talked much since the night Enjolras spent holding him in the hospital, just pleasantries and superficial conversation. There was an awkwardness between them now that hadn’t been there before, as if something had shifted in their relationship to each other though neither of them could identify yet what that might be. There was the obvious, of course, one having saved the other’s life at great peril to his own. But it was more than that. And while Enjolras may have pretended not to notice Grantaire watching him during the gatherings at the café, he wasn’t blind. When he did catch him looking his way, he saw that same ‘something’ in Grantaire’s deep, clear blue eyes that he’d seen the day of the attack and again in his own nightmare. Faith? Trust? Or something deeper, something Enjolras could not bring himself to name, something he had little experience with and even less time for in the pursuit of his glorious quest. If it troubled his mind for more than a moment or two though, he dealt with it as one would have expected ‘Apollo’ to do; he secured the marble mask firmly in place and carried on with his revolution.

 

As Fall progressed toward Winter the chill in the air seemed to cause Grantaire’s pain to worsen, especially in his upper back but deep, much deeper than just the surface wound, almost as if the pain was in the bones themselves. It was like being chilled from the inside out, a cold that no amount of clothing, hot baths or wood on the fire could abate. So he turned to wine because that had always worked before. But he found it did not work quite so well as he’d remembered. So he switched to brandy which seemed to do the trick. The only problem with that was that it required more and more to do the trick effectively. So he added absinthe and the result was that Grantaire was drunk again, more often than not. He would show up at Café Musain before the meeting and by the time les Amis arrived he was well in his cups. He took to his old behavior of heckling, baiting, mocking or just snorting derisively at all their “revolutionary folly.”  He would remain long after the boys were gone, if he left at all, sometimes just sleeping where he’d passed out, head on the table top or perhaps slumped on the floor beside his chair. He didn’t think to eat, didn’t always remember to change his clothes, even forgot to bathe. Sometimes he forgot where he lived and simply wandered around the streets till he passed out in one doorway or another. On a few occasions such as these he was pickpocketed by street urchins who found a sou or two still in his jacket. His friends were dismayed but had also become very concerned.  

 

What no one could see was the battle that was raging in Grantaire’s mind, the pain, the _invisible pain_ , the pain he couldn’t seem to numb no matter how hard he tried. It was there when he closed his eyes so he tried not sleeping. It was there whenever he went out into the streets so he tried not leaving home. He was always vigilant, constantly on the watch, never sure if the person next to him in the market, at the café or in the bar was reaching into their pocket for their purse or a knife. And the nightmare, that same damn nightmare that had tortured him in the hospital now haunted his dreams again. There seemed to be no escape, not in sleep or wakefulness, not in sobriety or drunkenness. In his more lucid moments he wondered if death would bring him any relief and found he was willing to give that option some serious consideration.

 

 


	8. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. All positive feedback and commentary are welcome.

If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 8

 

Enjolras was the last to leave the café after the meeting that night. He had noticed Grantaire staggering out the door earlier but had said nothing, just shot a disdainful and disapproving look in his direction. This did not escape Grantaire’s notice. Alcohol worked most of the time to numb the pain in his body and if he drank enough to pass out it also numbed the pain in his mind for a little while. But the pain in his heart was constant and knowing that he had gone back to being nothing more a drunken disappointment in Enjolras’ eyes just made that pain exponentially worse. Enjolras headed for home, his jacket wrapped tightly around him to ward off the chilly late night air. He hadn’t gone far when he saw a familiar figure with dark curly hair slumped in the doorway of the meat market no more than a few paces from the café. He moved in that direction, expecting he would have to pick his drunken cynic up and haul him home once again. When he got closer though, he was shocked to find Grantaire bleeding profusely from wounds in both wrists, a bloody knife still in his hands. His breathing was shallow and irregular. Without hesitation Enjolras used the knife in Grantaire’s hands to cut strips of cloth from his own shirt, bound the wounds in his wrists, tying a knot in both directly above the vein in each wound to apply pressure needed to slow the bleeding.  He pulled the unconscious man up, lifted him onto his shoulders and moved quickly in the direction of his own flat just a few blocks away. Once inside, he set Grantaire down carefully on his settee, elevated his feet with some pillows and covered him with a heavy woolen blanket. As he was doing so a piece of parchment paper fell out of Grantaire’s waistcoat pocket. When he picked it up he discovered it was addressed to him, or rather to ‘Apollo’, and sealed with red wax stamped with a simple ‘R’. Knowing there was nothing more he could do now but watch and wait, he slumped down onto the floor beside the settee with the note in his hand. Unsealing it he found both a letter penned in an unsteady hand and a sketch of himself. The drawing was splendid with such detail given to each aspect of his features that it almost looked like a fine portrait. He had no idea that this was how he appeared to the man who lay barely conscious in front of him. Then he read the note.

_My dearest Apollo,_

_It is my earnest wish that by the time you discover this message I shall be gone and finally out of my torment and yours. I have struggled so long with this all-consuming pain in my mind and heart and simply cannot bear it any longer. I am so sorry for always disappointing you with my drunkenness, for making sport of your ideals, for failing you so miserably. I would have known no greater honor than to have died for you that day in the park, or beside you on the day your glorious revolution finally arrived. Now I die as I have lived, in cowardice and shame. Believing in you as I have almost from the start, with my whole heart and soul, gave me courage and strength. But, my bright angel, loving you this way has left me weak, unmanly and disquieted, afraid you might somehow see into my soul and turn me away, knowing I would never be worthy of your heart even if you could give it._

The note continued but Enjolras was struck dumb by the words he had just read. _“…loving you this way…”_  

“Loving me? _LOVING_ me?” he said aloud without really meaning to. And then it all made sense. The look in Grantaire’s eyes that morning at the café when Enjolras had been so brutal to him, and later at the rally, then again in the hospital when he’d begged him not to leave, the look he could never quite figure out or put a name to. Not just faith or trust, but _love_. And understanding this at last allowed for the door he had so firmly closed and locked in his own mind and heart to open just a bit. He knew why the nightmare he’d had over and over again had unsettled him so, why he’d been unable to go to Grantaire in the hospital for so long, why the fear of losing this man had so gripped his heart and left him deeply pained. Love. It was all because of love.

Enjolras, now weeping quietly, rose to his knees, knelt over the still silent figure on the settee, brushed the dark locks of curly hair away from his eyes, softly kissed his forehead and whispered with a tenderness he could hardly believe even existed inside him, “Please, ‘R’. Please don’t leave, not like this. I don’t know if I can love you but I know I want to try. Please. Let me try.”  His tears fell gently onto the dark hair and fair skin. There was a flicker of movement. The deep blue eyes struggled to open but found they could not, the lips tried to form words but no sound came forth. A pale hand reached up for the face he sensed was so near his own even without seeing it, laid gently against the warm, damp cheek and just rested there, wordless, but saying all that needed to be said in that moment.


	9. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple chapters, work still in progress. This is my first ever fanfic. All positive feedback and commentary welcome.

If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 9

 

Enjolras gently picked up the still semi-conscious Grantaire and carried him to his bed. The long recovery in the hospital, all the drinking and poor nutrition had left Grantaire much lighter than he once was and Enjolras was surprised at the ease with which he was able to carry him. Once he had settled Grantaire on his bed, he again elevated his feet so as to prevent shock. (Seems he’d learned a thing or two from Joly and Combeferre, figuring it might help save his men’s lives when revolution did arrive.) Then he lay down carefully beside him, stretched out fully and covered them both with a warm blanket. Enjolras laid as close as he could get to the other man, gathered him into his arms and held him tightly, his blonde locks brushing against R’s dark curls. His mind raced with so many thoughts he’d never entertained- responsibility, forgiveness, fear and love, but especially love. Love for something other than the Patria, responsibility for something other than revolution.  Love for some _one,_ for his friends who would risk their very lives on _his_ say so, and the fear of losing them all. Love for this man in his arms and fear of losing him too, this man who had nearly died for him so willingly once before, who narrowly avoided dying again tonight _because of him_. Guilt that his own single-mindedness and inability to see what was right in front of him may have been the cause of this man’s death. It should have been obvious, he thought, that Grantaire was in deep turmoil and inner pain, that his suffering was crying out to be seen and heard, cries that he had been all but deaf to. Enjolras had never believed in an omnipotent deity but still he felt moved now to ask forgiveness from whatever force there may have been concerned with the affairs of mere mortal fools such as he. He had never felt more mortal, more vulnerable and scared, yet at the same time more _alive_. Now love had come and opened a door in his heart and he wondered if he would have the courage, the fortitude required to walk through it. Unsure of so many things for the first time in his life, he fell into a restless sleep.

He felt Grantaire stir beside him in the early hours when daylight had barely begun to break through the veil of night. He reached a hand over to stroke his head and soothe him, whispering softly “It’s ok, ‘Taire. You’re all right. You’re safe. I’m here with you now.” 

The dark haired man’s eyes opened slowly and struggled to focus in the dim light. Questions raced through his hazy mind and shone in his eyes but no words came forth. He gingerly raised his bandaged arms, inspected them, and then looked helplessly back at the man that watched him with such tender concern. Silent tears formed, started to roll down his pale cheeks. He shook his head softly from side to side. In a barely audible voice he whispered “sorry….failed… you…again…”

But Enjolras heard every word that he said. “No, ‘Taire. No. Please don’t say that! You have not failed me! It is I that have failed you. You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done nothing wrong except perhaps for choosing to love such a blind, thoughtless fool.” 

Grantaire’s eyes widened, tears still streaking down his face, shook his head again, more vigorously this time, stretched one bandaged arm out to touch the face he’d drawn so many times, the face he knew every feature of, the face of this man he loved enough to die for. Enjolras gently took hold of the hand that reached for him, laying the open palm against his own cheek for a moment, then laid it back under the blanket on Grantaire’s chest.

“Rest, ‘Taire. Just rest. I’ll be here when you wake up again, I promise.”

The dark haired man attempted a weak smile, a look of peacefulness crossing his face. Then, resting his head against the shoulder of his ‘Apollo’, he was asleep once again.

 

 

When Enjolras failed to materialize at a secondary meeting he’d scheduled for the next afternoon at the Musain, his lieutenants were understandably puzzled and a bit concerned. They’d all been a little unnerved by the attempt on his life that summer. Being AWOL from his own meeting was not at all typical of their leader so they decided someone should go round and check on him. Combeferre was elected for the duty. He knocked at the door of Enjolras’ flat around 2pm and was greatly relieved when the blonde man answered the door, looking weary but otherwise well. Enjolras looked at him puzzled so Combeferre gently filled in the blanks. “The meeting?”

His eyes went wide. “Oh hell, that’s right! I’m so sorry ‘Ferre!”

“Are you all right Enjolras?” 

“Yes, yes, fine” Enjolras replied though hardly convincingly.

Combeferre studied his leader more closely. “Enjolras, is that blood on your hands? And your shirt?”

The tone rose slightly in Combeferre’s voice. Enjolras looked at his hands and shirt, the one with strips missing from it, forgotten that he’d probably gotten Grantaire’s blood on himself while tending to the injured man’s wrists. Then from the bedroom a sudden frightened cry startled both men. Enjolras covered the distance in three strides, Combeferre trailed behind at a polite distance, curious and concerned, but still mindful of his leader’s privacy.

" 'Ferre, come here, help me, please!” Enjolras’ voice sounded panicked.

Combeferre got to his side in time to see a form thrashing violently under a heavy blanket, white cloth wrappings streaked with fresh blood visible from just beneath. Enjolras was trying to control the thrashing form, holding on tightly, speaking softly, soothingly. “It’s ok now, shhhh. Calm down. I’m here. It’s ok. You’re ok, ‘Taire. I’m here now.”

The tenderness in the voice, the words struck Combeferre silent and motionless for a long moment. Had he really just said ‘you’re ok, ‘Taire’? Then the form under the blanket was… Grantaire?

“Enjolras, what the deuce is going on here?!”

Combeferre couldn’t have kept the surprise or alarm out of his voice if he’d tried. But as he waited, dazed, for some kind of response, he noticed that the thrashing slowed, then stopped, the soft words and strong embrace of the blonde leader having an almost immediate calming effect on the man whose dark curly hair certainly looked like Grantaire’s. The man under the blanket, the man in Enjolras’ bed must have indeed been their drunken cynic. But what the hell had happened?

“Enjolras?”, this time a question spoken softly by Combeferre. 

Enjolras held a hand up as if to say “just wait a bloody minute, will you?!” but the soft soothing voice continued “it’s ok, just rest now ‘Taire. It’s ok. I’m right here. I won’t leave you alone again, I promise. Just rest.”  

And then… Combeferre couldn’t be absolutely certain… but it almost sounded like ‘I love you.’ Then he saw a bandaged arm reach out from under the blanket, hand upstretched, stroke Enjolras’ blonde locks, brush against his cheek, then disappear back under the blanket. Then the form stilled completely, apparently at peace once again. Enjolras sat there unmoving for a few minutes, waiting just to make certain his patient was really asleep. When he turned back to Combeferre there were fresh tears in his eyes and still damp on his cheeks. Enjolras was crying. Combeferre thought for a moment that the world must have gone completely mad. That was the only possible explanation for any of what he’d just seen and heard. Struggling valiantly to avoid all the questions he was sure he’d see in his lieutenant’s eyes, Enjolras spoke with a forced, calm casualness.

“Help me check his wounds, will you ‘Ferre? I think he may need stitches in one of them.”

Combeferre knew his leader well enough by now not to press for any more information than Enjolras was willing to give. “Of course” he replied, “let’s have a look then.”


	10. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 10

If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 10

 

Later that afternoon Combeferre reported back to ‘les amis’ that their leader was indeed well but could tell them little more about what might be going on with him. He had helped Enjolras assess more thoroughly the self-inflicted wounds on Grantaire’s wrists, put a few stitches in each to help prevent them from re-opening and gave such medications as he had to ward off infection, a major concern given Grantaire’s already somewhat weakened condition. Then he left the two of them alone to deal with whatever it was they were dealing with, something Combeferre was not even willing to hazard a guess about at this point. The boys were concerned and curious too of course, but they all respected Enjolras enough not to speculate, make assumptions or gossip. They trusted that when there was something they needed to know he would fill them all in on it.

For his part Enjolras focused only on Grantaire for the next few days, staying close beside him, caring for him, tending not only his physical wounds but the psychic ones too. He had also gotten some advice and some additional medications from Combeferre to help ease the symptoms of Grantaire’s detoxification from alcohol (again.) Grantaire was tired and still very weak from all he’d endured in recent months so he slept a good deal of the time, getting the most restful sleep whenever Enjolras laid beside him and held him close. But when he was awake he wanted to talk or have Enjolras read his newest speeches to him. He even tried drawing a bit. Mostly he was content to sit or lay where he could see his Apollo with the sunlit hair and just enjoy the view.

Combeferre came round again after a few days to recheck the wounds for any sign of infection and redress them. He knew Grantaire was embarrassed that he had seen the injuries and no doubt surmised what had caused them. But Combeferre was both compassionate and sensitive and so dealt with his ‘patient’ very diplomatically. Enjolras felt he needed to get back to the boys and their meetings sooner than later so he followed Combeferre outside once the young medical student had finished his ‘doctoring duties.’

“I don’t think he’s well enough to be left alone too long just yet, ‘Ferre, but I think we could manage a small meeting here. Will you ask the others about it?”  

“Of course. Enj. I can do that”, he replied, “but what should I say to them about all this?”

Enjolras dropped his head, looked down. “I don’t know ‘Ferre. I just don’t know.”

This statement unsettled Combeferre because Enjolras ALWAYS knew what to say, in ANY situation. Words of wisdom and power and inspiration came as naturally to him as breathing, poured from his mouth as easily and magnificently as water over a waterfall.

Combeferre took a deep breath, steeled himself and began. “Enj, you know me well by now, you know how much I admire and respect you. If what I’m about to say is wrong and I’m completely off the mark, then I apologize in advance. I think you’re trying very hard to avoid facing your feelings for Grantaire. He loves you, he has for some time now and I’m not the only who’s noticed it. Jumping in front of a knife wielding maniac who wanted to kill you makes a very strong statement about the depth of his love for you. Courf and Joly and Jehan and the others and I have all said that when the barricades finally arise we are willing to die with you there if need be. But Grantaire was willing to die FOR you rather than face a life without you. I don’t think you know how to accept that kind of love and devotion from him, from anyone for that matter. More importantly I think you love him too. In fact, I’m almost certain of it. You love him and you’ve come close to losing him twice now. I think that realization frightens you more than anything else, even more than death itself. Time may be short for all of us when revolution arrives. You must come to terms with this, Enj, you simply must find a way.” 

Combeferre finished speaking, stood facing his leader, quietly waiting for his response. When Enjolras looked up again there were tears in his eyes. He seemed to be struggling to find voice. Combeferre had expected anger or hot denial, anything but silence and tears. He knew for certain then that the arrow of truth unleashed by his words had found its mark.

When Combeferre had left, Enjolras returned to Grantaire’s side, still shaken by what ‘Ferre had said but admiring the courage he knew it must have taken to say it. Grantaire could see the troubled look on that angelic face, the redness of recent tears in those incredibly beautiful blue eyes. He reached out and gently pulled Enjolras close to him, wrapped both arms around his waist as tightly as he could manage with his still bandaged arms and rested his head against Enjolras’ sturdy chest, listening to the steady heartbeat of the man, this man that he loved, this man not made of marble after all. And Enjolras did not resist.

 


	11. If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 11

If There's No One Beside You, Chapter 11

 

Grantaire struggled to live a sober life and tried his best to be worthy of Enjolras’ heart. Enjolras struggled to live an emotional life and tried his best to be worthy of Grantaire’s love. Though both did their fair share of ‘slipping up’ and their path was at times rocky and uncertain, still each man balanced, completed the other. Enjolras helped tame the wildness and calm the self-destructive bent in Grantaire. Grantaire helped Enjolras become more comfortable with his humanity and less fearful of his vulnerability. Their friends couldn’t help but notice the profound change in both and all were glad for it. After all, they figured, anything that made Enjolras less angry and ‘Taire less drunk had to be a positive thing.  But there was still a monarchy to be overthrown, masses of poor to be uplifted and bourgeoisie to be cut down to size. Love was wonderful but revolution stopped for nothing.

‘Taire wasn’t necessarily yet a convert to the cause but his belief in Enjolras was deep and unwavering. When he attended the meetings of ‘les amis’ at the Musain now he sat quietly in his usual spot, tuned in to the action, but usually just sipping on a mug of hot tea and drawing. Enjolras was still by far his favorite subject but now he was able to sketch him more openly, less afraid of what the others might say if they discovered pictures of their leader on page after page in Grantaire’s worn sketchbook.

When they were alone together, Enjolras sometimes shared the speeches he was working on with ‘R’, refining them before this very honest and forthright ‘audience of one.’ And Grantaire sometimes shared his art with Enjolras, even the sketches he’d made of him, even though he felt they never quite did justice to the man he still saw as god-like. And for his part, Enjolras couldn’t ever quite bring himself to believe that that was how he really appeared to Grantaire. 

Enjolras carried on speaking in public whenever an opportunity presented itself and Grantaire was always there in front, listening, watching, always wary, always ready.  Social unrest continued to grow. By the spring of 1832 it was clear that some sort of uprising was imminent. All that was needed was that one watershed event that would ignite the revolutionary fire. Enjolras and les amis stood ready, waiting for the hint of a spark. Grantaire stood waiting too, ready to follow Enjolras into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to ready my first fanfic. I hope there will be more since I had such a great time with this one. It practically wrote itself so I don't know if the next one will come that easily! I hope you enjoyed this. "And remember the words that once were spoken; to love another person is to see the face of God.."


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